Karen and Matt

Mr. Murdock

“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a Monster.” - Nietzsche

Wrapped up bare breasted in sweaty, bloody sheets with their devilish despair.

Cinematic Parallels - Daredevil X Hannibal

1. In their full throttled devilish form

2. Sleepless Sleepyheads

3. Facepalms (Someone give them a hand so that these babies can facepalm their facepalm their facepalm their facepalm.)

4. Hot and bothered And Bloooody

5. Top of the morning for our eyes

(I have so many more parallels which will be posted in due time. Can hardly keep calm with these two absolutely brilliant avant garde top tier lovable characters.)

RED 18/50: Elektra

I’m creating a new project entitled “Red” the idea is simple, to draw characters from all across media that relate to this particular color. This is just a fan project and all characters belong to their respective companies.

You can see more at my INSTAGRAM account:

@ ultimatejulio_art

Or my FACEBOOK page:

Ultimatejulio

RED 9/50: Daredevil

I’m creating a new project entitled “Red” the idea is simple, to draw characters from all across media that relate to this particular color. This is just a fan project and all characters belong to their respective companies.

You can see more at my INSTAGRAM account:

@ ultimatejulio_art

Or my FACEBOOK page:

Ultimatejulio

Don’t Go, Don’t Stray

Pairing:Vladimir Ranskahov x reader

Summary: After your air conditioner dies in the middle of a heat wave, you go to stay at Vladimir’s. With a sudden change of heart, he realizes he wants you to move in.

Word count: ~2,900

Author’s note: Um I told @angelaiswriting I would write this LITERALLY 1.5 years ago so bless her and her patience

Title is from the song of the same name by Transit: “Don’t go, don’t stray. Stay here with me. And if you need a little fresh air, well, we can sleep on the fire escape.”

—

It all starts with an air conditioner.

Of course your window unit would choose to die during record-breaking heat in the dead of summer, with the frenzy to buy them across the nation leaving it virtually impossible to get a new one.

So, you called Vladimir.

“Question for you.”

He hums and you continue. “My air conditioner just died and no one for 100 miles has one in stock. Do you think I could crash at your place for a few days? I think I might actually burst into flames if I stay here any longer.”

Vladimir freezes. Sure, you’re in and out of his apartment all the time, but it’s not like you’re leaving your stuff there. Even though you’ve been seeing each other for half a year, you’ve been careful to respect his need for boundaries — to have his space as his own. You knew he was, as he put it, “historically pretty shit” at relationships and he’d never had anyone move in before, and you had told him upfront that you didn’t want to put pressure on him — you just wanted to be with him. You didn’t think you had to live together for him to show you he loved you because he did it whenever you were together. And he adored you for it.

But, as he rolls the sleeves of his navy button down further up his arms, sweating already at 9 in the morning, he does agree that you probably will combust without AC access. And what’s the worst that could happen? And he’s also sure he can leverage this into some kind of sex thing.

“Hello?”

Shit. You’re still there.

“Sure, come by the garage so I can get you key.” he grins and you can hear it in his voice. “You owe me, малышка.”

“Ok, Saint Volodyaaaa. Thank you, love you, I’ll be down in like an hour.”

“You too, see you then.”

“Bye!”

Tolya walks in as his brother’s hanging up the phone, staring at it like it’s going to bite him.

“Who was that?”

“Y/N. Her air conditioner broke and she can’t find a new one with assholes buying them all up. She’s going to stay over until the heat breaks.”

Anatoly pauses for a few seconds, opening his mouth and closing it before he responds.

“Ok.”

“What?“ Vladimir narrows his eyes at his brother. "She’s over all the time. It’s just a few days.”

“I didn’t say anything! Just surprised.” Anatoly takes a sip of his coffee, his tone even. “It’s not like you’ve ever liked sharing your space.”

“I’ve never liked sharing space with you, shithead. There’s a difference.

Anatoly’s brow furrows. “Yeah. The difference being you’re terrified of living with a woman.”

“The fuck I am,” Vladimir snarls.

Anatoly rolls his eyes but stays silent, a well-practiced move in the years he’s spent by his fiery brother’s side.

His lack of further provocation works as intended, and Vladimir sinks back into the chair, running his hand through his blond spikes.

“There just hasn’t been any woman I wanted to live with.”

“Until Y/N?”

Vladimir nods his head yes and no in a back-to-back motion.

“But she’s not moving in, Tolya. Not now. It’s just for a few days.”

Anatoly’s long-worn patience finally breaks, shaking his head.

“I just do not understand why you’re being such a bitch about this.”

Vladimir is on hit feet in an instant, his chair scraping across the floor.

“The fuck did you just say to me?“

Anatoly chuckles darkly, taking a long sip of his coffee as Vladimir stands there, seething. He stares at his brother and Vladimir frowns, annoyed at how Anatoly’s dark gaze always seems to run straight through him, past the battle-scarred exterior and down to his core.

"You are fucking impossible sometimes, you know this? Would it hurt you to even consider using this as a trial run, hm? This is the longest relationship you’ve been in, you know you love her — and you could desperatelystand to benefit from having someone around who wasn’t me or mama or a cellmate.”

Vladimir turns on his heel, slamming himself back down into the chair, arms crossed. Anatoly was right, of course. He was being a stubborn prick. And for what? Pride? Because showing he was in a committed relationship was somehow a sign of weakness?

He sat there for a moment and did what Anatoly asked: consideredyou moving in with him. And he was pleasantly surprised that when he really imagined it, really thought about it, it made him happy. The feeling of having you there next to him every morning and night, knowing you were safe. Not having to text you to come over at 2 in the morning because he couldn’t sleep until you calmed him down. A space that was yours, together.

Vladimir sighed and looked up at Anatoly.

"I will … consider. Happy?”

“No. But this is a good decision, Volodya.” He clapped him on the shoulder, dragging another chair over to sit next to him. “Now, onto business.”

Fuck. The last thing Vladimir wanted was to spend more time talking about that fucking asshole in the black mask. And as they discussed Semyon and epinephrine and whatever else Anatoly was going on about, Vladimir couldn’t help feeling his attention drifting away to you. Secretly hoping that, if the next few days went well, he’d find the balls to ask you to stay.

–

Vladimir walks into the apartment and can’t help but laugh at the sight he’s met with. You must’ve just beaten him home from work and there you are, dramatically sprawled across the couch clad only in a sports bra and boxer shorts, relief evident in your face.

He hangs his keys near the door and walks across the room, giving you a light kiss on the forehead.

“Happy?”

You hum in response, reaching up to grab his face and bringing his lips to yours. “You have no idea. Thank you again.”

“‘Course, принцесса.”

You give a mischievous smile up at him, a knowing glint in your eyes.

“Before you start twitching, don’t worry, I’ve kept all my shit neatly organized on my side of the bed.”

Vladimir scoffs, gently flicking your head and chuckling as you give an exaggerated “ow.”

“I don’t twitch.”

“No?” You roll off the couch and walk over to the door, grabbing your sandals from their neatly slotted spot. You fix him with a dead stare.

“So it doesn’t bother you at all if I,” you pause, dropping your sandals, one after the other, on the living room rug, “do this?”

Damn, you had him. Vladimir hated mess, hated chaos — at least in his home. Because there was too much of it already in his life. For years, he craved a place where he could just breathe, and he was picky and territorial once he had it.

But rather that concede defeat, he chose to stride over to you, scarred hands lingering on your hips as he pushes you gently against the kitchen island.

“For smart woman, you forget I lived in a Siberian prison?” He makes a “tsk, tsk” sound and you roll your eyes. “You think something like dirty shoes bothers me?”

You sigh, cupping his face in your hands.

“I know it bothers you because you didn’t have the chance to keep things of your own or keep them nice. Hm?”

Vladimir just hums back, ignoring you, because his attention is now elsewhere. His hands dig into your hips firmly, holding you in place as he trails a line of kisses from the base of your ear down to your throat, relishing the goosebumps that rise on your flesh.

But then you nudge his chest and spin out of his grip, laughing as he quickly pulls you back to him.

“Vova, not now.”

“Why?” He moves his lip back to your neck, teeth and stubble grazing against your skin in the way he knows drives you crazy. And it’s crazy to him how fast he gets turned on so fast just by your presence, your laugh, the way the soft fabric of your sports bra is cut just so to show your cleavage.

“You did say you owe me.”

You laugh louder this time and escape his grip once again, earning a frustrated groan from him.

“No, no, you said I owe you, asshole, there’s a difference.” You swat at his chest, turning to counter and grabbing a laden grocery bag. “Besides, I already know how I’m making it up to you.”

You dump out the contents and gesture grandly.

“Carnitas!”

“That’s nice,” he says flatly, immediately grinning as you yell back at him.

“Oh my GOD, Vova, we will have sex later, stop pouting and be excited for delicious Mexican food!”

“Okay.”

He walks around the island to where you’re starting to assemble kitchen supplies and pulls you into him once more, but this time, with a softer intention. He’s really just thankful for you, for the time he has with you, when his fucked up life and his fucked up head just smooth out.

You stiffen, thinking he’s trying to get you into bed again, but immediately relax into him as he presses his lips into your hair with a quiet murmur:

“я тебя люблю.”

“I love you, too, babe. Now,” you push up on your tiptoes, leaning across the counter to grab a chef’s knife out of the set. “Can you please go put those formidable knife skills to use on these veggies while I work on this seasoning?”

“Sure.”

You pull your phone off the counter and put it on speaker, starting some kind of mellow indie rock hit that fills the room as the two of you take up your respective culinary tasks side by side. Vladimir glances at you and he exhales unconsciously, wondering why he would be so worried about making this permanent — getting lost in his own little slice of the ordinary and the beautiful with you.

–

One day turns into two, two turns into three. And when the heatwave shows no sign of slowing down and you ask him if he minds you staying longer, he doesn’t hesitate.

“As long as you need to, котенок.”

It ends up being a full seven days before the temperature breaks, and Vladimir finds himself facing a new dilemma. Instead of worrying that you were going to bring up moving in, now he’s worried you won’t want to.

“Don’t know why you’re being such a little bitch about this.”

His brother’s words ringing in his head, he grits his teeth and decides he just needs to do it. He just needs to ask. It’s not like he’s asking you to marry him. Fuck, that just sends even more anxiety flooding through him. If he was this nervous now, what the fuck would he be like if he wanted to propose?

He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, giving himself his trademark death glare and muttering under his breath.

“You need to handle one thing at a time and calm the fuck down, mudak. Now, go ask your woman to live with you. And then Tolya can fuck off, too.”

Chewing at his lip unconsciously, he walks out the door and back to his bedroom where you’re still nestled under the covers, just waking up. You give him the sweetest, sleepiest smile and he finds some of his nerves dissipating.

He crawls back in and lifts his arm so you can slide into your preferred location on his chest, your soft hands tracing the lines of his tattoos.

You stay intertwined like this, comfy abs quiet for a few moments, before Vladimir breaks the silence, twirling a lock of your hair between his fingers.

“I am glad you stayed this week.”

“Yeah, me too.” You hesitate for a second before continuing, something Vladimir doesn’t miss. “Honestly, it was kind of nice not having to shuffle back and forth.”

“Ok, ask her now … ok, now. HELLO. MUDAK.”

But he doesn’t. He just sits there, frozen, letting the silence stretch over the two of you. You break it and while your tone is light, when Vladimir looks at you, he realizes with a pang in his chest that your eyes don’t fully reach him.

Fuck, he was such a coward.

“I’ll make sure my place is fit for human habitation again and you can come over later this week?”

Finally, he finds his voice.

“I don’t want you to go.”

You shift off his chest and sit up, and he’s glad because he can feel his heart racing. You look at him, confused.

“You want me to stay over again tonight?”

“I want you to just stay. Every day,” he adds, hoping it’s enough for you to understand what he’s getting at. It’s weird for him, not being direct, but he just can’t bring himself to ask it outright. Because he doesn’t know what he’d do if you say no.

Dawning comprehension reads on your face and you tilt your head.

“Are you asking me to move in with you?”

Well, there’s no getting around it now. He grabs your hand in his, running his thumb across your knuckles.

“Da.” He feels you staring at him and can’t read the look, so he drops his gaze, panic creeping in even though he’s trying his best to keep his shit together. “Only if you want to. If not, I don’t care, I just thought it makes sense. Like you said, you would not have to shuffle back and forth and —“

He stops talking as you press your fingers against his lips, and hope flickers in his chest when he realizes you’re smiling.

“Hey. You’re very cute babbling like this right now, but you don’t need to be nervous. I love you and I love us, of course I’ll move in with you.”

He looks at you, pleasantly stunned.

“Really?”

"Yeah.”

He grins and pulls you up, giggling, into his lap so you’re straddling his thighs.

“This was much easier than I thought.”

Your smile fades slightly, replaced with a look of concern as you trace his stubbled jawline.

“Did you really think I’d say no?”

Vladimir shrugs, tattooed hands sliding up the bottom of your tank top to rest on the skin near your hip bones.

“I’ve never lived with anyone before besides family. Or other prisoners.”

He looks you over, taking in your softness, your bright eyes. Awestruck that someone as good as you would be with someone like him.

He smiles. “You are special, котенок.”

You beam back and kiss him, hard, and he melts under your touch, hands shifting from your hips to your ass.

You pull back slightly, smirking.

“I am special. And now,” you pause, nipping at his bottom lip before you pull back with a soft murmur. “You’re stuck with me, Ranskahov.”

He plays along, shifting one hand to tug in your hair, his turn to smirk at the whine that escapes your lips.

“Well, maybe I change my mind.”

You laugh, breathless and pupils blown wide.

“Don’t you dare.”

“No, no, don’t you worry.” Vladimir has you flipped on your back in two seconds, wrists pinned above your head. God, he could die happy with the way you’re looking at him right now, the color rising in your cheeks. For himand him alone.

“Now you’re the one stuck, pretty girl.”

“Oh well.”

You tug him down to you and he reacts instantly, falling into the familiar rhythm of losing himself entirely in you. His hand finds its way to the base of your throat as the other slips past the waistband of your panties in a practiced motion, his fingers gliding in the slickness between your legs up as he massages your clit.

“Fuck, Vova.”

And then, exhibiting a restraint he didn’t know he was possible of, he pulls back, and you actually yell in frustration as the contact is broken. Yep, this was payback for when you left him hanging for carnitas.

“Seriously?!”

“Your turn for frustration, принцесса,” he says in sing song. He takes your hands in his, grazing his lips across them as you glare. “Now that you will officially be living here, I have a question.”

“It better be an important one,” you grumble, and he tries to keep a straight face, but it’s hard. He loves you so much but, God, he can’t help himself from messing with you.

He cups your face in his hands, his touch such a tender contrast to his question that you dissolve into laughter.

“Can you please stop leaving your fucking jacket on the chair? We have many closets, you can take your pick.”

"Oh, I can, can I? How gracious of you. You chuckle and bring him down for a quick kiss. “I will, asshole, only because you asked so nicely.”

Vladimir pretends to look scandalized.

“I am alwaysnice.”

“No, you’re not. But it’s ok.” You lick your lips and grin, guiding his hand back between your thighs. "Nice guys could never do what you do to me.”

And as you crash back into each other, Vladimir is filled with the surety that no matter where you two are, as long as you’re together, he’s home.

Disability and Daredevil: a Rewatch Analysis

So, I’m rewatching Daredevil, between chemistry exams and writing rhetorical analysis essays. I first watched the first season when it first came out in 2015 when I was 15. When I did that math, I felt prompted to do some reflecting. Between 2015 and 2021, a lot has changed for me. For instance, I’ve grown more bitter, become a taxpayer, learned I don’t like dessert brownies as much as I thought I did, and, oh, how could I forget, I’ve lived through a plague. If you’re reading this, then you’ve lived through a plague too; so, congratulations! We should start a club.

However, one of the biggest changes in my life has been working as a writing center tutor. Training for the position required that I step back from myself and look at how others access the world, access writing. Accessibility in a writing center, and in any place, looks different for different people. For me, accessibility implies safety and that those with me, specifically in the writing center, will respect my identity and use my pronouns. For others, accessibility means installing a wheelchair ramp or having closed captioning available on instructional grammar videos. What I’m trying to say is this: my writing center work has expanded my perspective on accessibility and how people view others with disabilities.

At this point, you’re probably asking “what does your tutoring practice have to do with Daredevil?” or “when are you going to open your fanfiction request box?”. Both are fair questions, though I would like to focus on the former.

While rewatching Daredevil, specifically season one, I was struck by how no one realized that Matt was ‘The Devil of Hells Kitchen’. Yes, I know, he wears a mask so people can’t recognize him; however, his voice is unaltered. Also, his body shape and frame are clearly visible. Not to mention the fact his beard (stubble) and lower half of his face are almost entirely uncovered. These traits are unique to him. Karen, who’s been close with both Matt and the Devil seems to have failed to hear how they share the same tone of voice and the same handsome chin.

I say that, but I love Karen, and those traits by themselves, Matt’s voice and physicality may not be enough to give his identity away. However, in conjunction with the fact that he knows what’s going on with Fisk and openly talks about how he knows what’s going on with Fisk, as both Murdock, attorney at law, and as 'The Devil of Hells Kitchen’, there’s enough evidence for Matt’s friends and enemies to make a connection. For instance, Fisk knew that killing Elena Cardenas, a Nelson and Murdockclient, would stir the Devil into an angry rage. He couldn’t go a step further and consider that, perhaps, the attorneys and the vigilante were connected? How could he not at least assume that Matt and Foggy knew the Devil?

When I was younger, more naive, and a bigger fan of dessert brownies, I simply overlooked this lapse in judgment. On my rewatch, it stood out to me clearer than it did in 2015. I was sitting in my dorm wondering how Fisk could miss the glaringly obvious connection when it hit me. Matthew Murdock is blind and The Devil of Hells Kitchen moves like he can see his assailants strike before they have the chance to land. Any connection was severed by Matthew’s very visible blindness. People who could have made the connection, Fisk, and Karen, would most likely stop short. Matt has a disability, the Devil does not.

Most people assume that those with disabilities struggle through life, even when it comes to 'simple’ tasks. While this may be true in some respects, working with people with disabilities in the writing center has shown me otherwise. Accessibility is different for people with disabilities, and struggling to have their needs met is an all too common occurrence; but that is not synonymous with impossibility. If anything, it is more related to one’s adaptability, how they handle and overcome disadvantages. Matthew Murdock proves that. He’s a blind man living in a world of sight. An attorney by day and crime fighter at night!

I, by no means, mean to invalidate the struggles or alienate people with disabilities by referencing how Matt lives a…we’ll say busyand fulfilling life with his disability. I simply mean to highlight how, while the people in Matt’s life see him as a blind man who will be unable to experience/do certain things, he proves, as 'The Devil of Hells Kitchen’, that his disability does not limit him. Granted, the chemical spill that caused his blindness may have something to do with his abilities, and Stick’s fucked up training, but I digress.

While I may be backing down and off of this strange, Marvel-related soapbox, my point still stands proud. That point being: despite all of the fairly hard-hitting connections one could make between the man, Matthew Murdock, and the Devil, each one is discounted on the count of Matthew’s blindness. In the words of Ben Urich, “no one would look at a blind man twice.” The thought 'no blind man could move like that’ probably danced in the back of Fisk’s bald head once or twice. I wonder if he ever kicks himself about that…

I also wonder what you think. I know this analysis is a pretty obvious one. While I was writing, I found myself shaking my head. How did younger me miss this? I was an idiot, lost in myself, and a proponent of dessert brownies, that’s how. Anyway, what do you think?